Artistic License
by Saturday
Summary: Everything felt smooth and cold and dreamlike, but if I was dreaming, I didn't mind. [an interesting combination of swumlets and french impressionism]
1. Chapter One

**Author's Note: **I'm in a strange mood. Summer does weird stuff to the brain, don't you think? Perhaps it's good that I'm away from all other forms of human life (besides my younger sister, but she doesn't really count); now I can't hurt anyone. Except you. Which brings me to the point of this author's note: READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. This is bound to be incredibly bizarre and kinda eerie, and NOTHING LIKE my other stuff. You have been warned. :-D

**Disclaimer:** Lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists/whatever, Swifty and Bumlets belong to Disney, and any other unfamiliar characters probably belong to me. :-D :-O :- (Ohh I'm having fun with these little smiley faces...)

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**_"Art is a step from what is obvious and well-known toward what is arcane and concealed."_**

_**-Kahlil Gibran**_

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I hadn't eaten anything in about three days. I had a tendency to do that, to forget to eat. Everyone had always thought I'd gain some sense of responsibility when I moved into my own house, but I never did. It drove my brother insane.

I didn't much care. Right now I was hungry.

I got up from my desk and headed down the hall. At one point I supposed the walls had been white; it was impossible to see the color now underneath the hundreds of thousands of paintings, sketches, and posters tacked up all over the place. Some of them were mine, some were remakes of a Renoir or Daubigny, some were original paintings I had somehow managed to get my hands on.

I loved French impressionism. My favorite was Monet, but who _didn't_ like Monet best? He had such a way with colors, the way he could capture the shadows and light of one particular moment in a day ... Even the way he signed his _name_ was beautiful.

"Honey, you are a rock upon which I stand," I sang softly as I made my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. "And I came here to talk ... I hope you'll understand. The green eyes, yeah the spotlight shines upon you ... And how could anybody deny you?"

I stuck my head into the refrigerator and pulled out a jar of pickles. "I came here with a load, and it feels so much lighter now I met you ... And honey you should know that I could never go on without you ... Green eyes."

I couldn't find my _Coldplay_ album, so I had to make do with singing it myself. Needless to say, it wasn't exactly the same. I decided to eat my pickles and stop trying to sound good.

There was a knock on the door. I froze. Nobody ever knocked on my door — I was Thomas Jenkins, the mildly insane and potentially dangerous 25-year-old rejected artist just scraping by selling a painting every now and then. Nobody _wanted_ to knock on my door.

Whoever it was knocked again, a little louder this time. "I'm comin', I'm comin'," I mumbled, getting up from the couch. I walked over to the door and pulled it open.

I suddenly became very aware of the fact that I was wearing a pair of old blue jeans ripped at the knees, a baggy gray t-shirt with paint speckled all over it, and a New England Patriots baseball cap that was almost falling apart. I was looking like complete shit, and standing before me was the single most gorgeous boy I had ever laid eyes on. Shaggy black bangs framed his angular face, complete with high cheekbones and full lips and everything. He was wearing baggy blue jeans and a loose-fitted t-shirt, but I could tell the body underneath was incredible.

I stepped back slightly, trying to discreetly conceal the major erection I was having. He smiled at me and took his hand out of his pocket to shake mine. "Shane Michener, Redwood House Repairs, nice to meet you."

"...Hey," I said lamely, shaking his hand.

"You're Thomas Jenkins, right? Or, ah..." He looked down at the clipboard in his other hand. "Swifty?"

I turned pink. "Yeah."

"Was that you singing Coldplay before?" he asked suddenly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. I nodded and his smile broadened. "Awesome band. _Anyway. _I'm not here to discuss music with you, although that would be very nice. Your brother Eric called the other day and made an appointment for us to fix up your roof; said it was dripping on you like crazy, and we've got a couple of good thunderstorms comin' up."

"My brother called you? For me?" I asked, eyebrows raised.

"If Eric Jenkins is in fact your brother, then yes." He winked then checked his watch. "So, ah, do you mind if I get started? It shouldn't take too long, unless your roof really _is_ as bad as your brother tells me."

"Sure." I looked down at the jar I was still holding loosely at my side. "Want a pickle?"

"Y'know, they say there are two kinds of people in this world," he said. _(Those with loaded guns, and those who dig.) _"Those who like sour pickles, and those who like sweet ones."

"And which kind are you?"

He grinned. "I'm a mutant; I like both."

"Surely not!" I gasped. "Well, would you like one?"

"Why not." He reached into the jar and pulled out a pickle. I pretended not to be turned on as the juice dripped gently down his fingers. "I hope you know that if you're poisoning me, my company's gonna sue," he said as he took a bite.

"Well I was planning on moving to Alaska anyway..."

He laughed. "You don't have to call me Shane, y'know. Most people call me Bumlets."

"Why?"

"Honestly? For the life of me, I can't remember." Bumlets finished his pickle and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Well, I'm headed up on the roof. It might be a little loud, but I should be done for today in an hour or two. Assuming, of course, that you don't distract me," he added, wiggling his eyebrows at me.

He walked back over to his truck to get the ladder, and I closed the door with trembling hands. That had been a very suggestive remark.

That had been really fun.

I put away the jar of pickles and went back up to my room. I could hear Bumlets positioning the ladder against the house and climbing up onto the roof, whistling happily. I sat back down at my desk and again found myself staring at a blank canvas, all inspiration having left me. Maybe I could get Bumlets to model nude for me or something.

Chuckling at my own wit, I reached down and patted Manet on the head. I had two dogs, Toulouse and Manet — yes, I was dorky enough to actually name my dogs after French impressionists. They were both ugly old muts, and I loved 'em to death. Half my room was covered with sketches of them, mainly of Toulouse because Manet was always on the go and never wanted to sit still.

Up on the roof, Bumlets let out a low whistle. "Man, your roof really _is_ as bad as your brother said," he laughed, half to himself and half to me.

"Yeah, I haven't gotten around to fixing it," I called up to him.

"Don't the leaks bother you?"

"They bother my brother more."

He chuckled and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "Quite the Wicked Witch of the West, ain't he?" before beginning to hammer away at my beloved roof. He sang as he hammered, alternating between Coldplay and Green Day and The Sound of Music.

I looked over at Toulouse, an old dog with dark gray fur and groaning joints. "Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings! These are a few of my FAVORITE THIIIINGS!" sang Bumlets on the roof. Toulouse raised an eyebrow at me.

"I know, it's a little loud compared to what we're used to," I said, scratching him behind the ears. "But change is good, right? 'Sides, he's damn sexy. I haven't had a crush since..."

I stopped. When _was_ the last time I had had a crush? I hadn't had much time for that kind of thing during my childhood; dad just kinda up and left when I was five and Eric was eight, and then mom killed herself a year later — we just went between foster homes for a few years after that, and then I went to college and majored in art. No girlfriends — or boyfriends, for that matter — at all in that period of time.

"Sheesh, I haven't had much exposure to other guys, have I?" I said, blinking. Toulouse nudged me in the ribs with his nose. "Well yeah, the fact that I'm gay doesn't help much, does it?" I added and nudged him back. I stood up. "Where the hell is Manet?"

The hammering stopped. "Did you just say 'Where the hell is Manet'? As in the impressionist?"

"As in my dog."

"Ah. Red-brown one? She's wandering around down here on the lawn, I think, if you can call it a lawn. Pretty soon your brother's gonna be callin' Lincoln Tree and Landscape too, eh?"

"She's not all over you?" I asked abruptly.

"Wha?"

"Manet. My dog. She's not trying to climb onto the roof with you and lick you all over until you drown?"

There was a slight pause. "No, I don't think so."

I shrugged. "Well, you _are_ on the roof with a loud hammer. Whatever, sorry I interrupted, carry on!" And I went back down to check on my dog with Toulouse at my heels.

She was behaving oddly. Manet had always been more like a Golden Retriever than anything else; she was enthusiastic, overly friendly, and not exactly the brightest crayon in the box. Now she was lying on her back, whimpering softly.

"Manny?" I said quietly, kneeling down next to her. "You all right?"

She wasn't hurt. Toulouse poked her with his nose and checked her all over, but she was perfectly fine. Eventually she got up, and after a few minutes she was back to her usual hyperactive self again, hopping around and almost knocking Toulouse over.

I looked up at Bumlets. He shrugged at me, tossing his hammer from one hand to the other. "There's a reason I never got a dog," he said, smiling. "Like to mess with your mind, don't they? That must be one of the weird things dogs do when they think no people are around."

I laughed and went back inside. After a minute the hammering started up again, and I sat on my couch and listened to Bumlets replacing the old shingles on my roof.

Then I went upstairs and painted a picture of a huge, multicolored question mark that filled up the entire canvas.

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**Author's Note:** There will be more. I have no idea where this story came from, but it's kind of fun. Please leave a review, I'll love you forever!! :-D

-Saturday


	2. Chapter Two

**Author's Note:** It was terrible. I was stranded in the middle of Maine on some obscure family bonding vacation, and inspiration hit me like a lightning bolt. And I had no computer access for three more days. AHH. But now, oh yes, now I am home and I can WRITE! HOORAY!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any newsies or actual places or song lyrics or mentioned bands or anything. Any characters you don't recognize belong to me.

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**_"The name Floyd always made me think of a kind of fuzzy purple boa. It never struck me that it was a real name for a person. I think I've been scarred for life."_**

**_-Bumlets Michener_**

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I'd always been the kind of person who had extremely vivid dreams. It looked like one of those Homer Winslow paintings; I was sitting on a boat in the middle of the ocean, and there were dark clouds gathering in the east and the dim outline of a ship on the horizon. I needed to get to that ship before the storm reached me.

"Ah well, could be worse, eh? At least there aren't any sharks circling our boat," said Bumlets.

I looked at him. "Where did you come from?"

"Mother always said I came from heaven," he said, and he leaned forward and took one of the heavy wooden oars.

I revised my question. "What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Helping you try to get out of this mess you've dreamed up." He nodded at the other oar. "Here, take this and we can actually get moving."

I was always alone in this dream. I had had it before. I'd actually been having it almost every night for the past two or three months, and I still couldn't figure out what it meant. I would row desperately towards the ship, all the while getting farther and farther away as the storm drew nearer. I would wake up just as I collapsed, exhausted, over the edge of the boat and into the icy water.

"You don't really expect to reach the ship, do you?"

Bumlets smiled. He looked slightly different in the odd light — the colors on his face were stronger, the outlines more blurry. "Anything's possible," he said seriously, and he began to row.

It was exactly as I knew it would be. The more we rowed, the further away the ship seemed to get. And while the work was steadily draining me of energy, Bumlets seemed to be growing stronger as we went. "Aw c'mon, Swifty, don't give up now," he said, laughing and punching my arm.

His fist went right through my arm as though we were both made of a very fine mist.

"You can't play with us, Tom."

I looked over my shoulder, astonished. My brother Eric and a few of his friends were hovering several feet above the water, smirking at me. They were about twenty-five years younger, eight at the most, and looked just as cocky as I remembered them.

"W-what?" I asked stupidly.

"You can't play with us."

"Why not?" I demanded. I didn't know why on _earth _I was carrying on this conversation; I guess it was just the fact that there were actually PEOPLE in my dream tonight, and the change was intriguing.

"Because..." Eric looked surprised that I had talked back. He raised his eyebrows, thinking hard, and looked me over. "Because your hair's too messy. You won't be able to play right."

"I won't be able to play _house_ because you don't like my hair?" I laughed.

"Well," said Eric coldly, "that is, unless you want to play the dog."

_Knock, knock._

I was jerked most unpleasantly back to reality be a sharp knocking on my front door. I opened my eyes and found myself with my head on my desk, a little pool of saliva on one of the pieces of scrap paper. "Aw, nasty," I mumbled, sitting up and trying vainly to wipe it away with my sleeve.

_Knock, knock._

"My, I'm pretty damn popular these days." I stood up and glanced in the mirror. A skinny, 25-year-old guy looked back at me, messy brown-black hair framing a bony face. I pulled the sleeves of my loose shirt over my hands and went downstairs, opening the door before whoever it was had the chance to knock again.

It was Michaela Bridges, smiling at me from underneath a Yankees baseball cap. I really should have shut the door in her face once I saw the hat, but for some reason I didn't. "Do _you_ think my hair's too messy?" I asked her.

The smile faltered slightly. "Excuse me?"

"I think it looks cool, don't you? Kind of like Harry Potter, right? An Asian, 25-year-old Harry Potter wannabe?"

"Are you feeling all right, Tom?" she asked.

I pushed my rimless glasses up the bridge of my nose and smiled devilishly at her. "Never been better, Michaela. How can I help you?"

She didn't look convinced, but she let it slide. "I just wanted to check up on you, make sure you're okay," she said.

"Mika, nobody comes to my house without a real reason." Manet rubbed up against my leg and began to sniff my ass. I kicked her out of the way, and she bounded over to Michaela and started slobbering all over her arms.

Michaela managed to avoid responding to my comment by pretending to really be interested in scratching behind Manet's ears. I looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "So tell me, Mika, why _are _you here?"

"I dunno, Tom. I just wanted to talk to you." She took off her hat and ran a hand through her short, dark brown hair. She was one of the few girls I knew who actually looked good with a boy haircut. It probably had something to do with the bone structure in her face.

"Tom?"

I blinked. "What? Oh. _Oh_. Well, Mika, what do you want to talk about?" _Here we go, _I thought dully. _She'll never admit that she's completely in love with my brother. She'll never admit that she only came over here because I'm his brother, because I'm the easiest way to get to his heart. Man, one of these days she just has to come out and say, "Tom? I want to break up Eric and Catherine's marriage and elope with him to North Dakota." I hope you don't mind that I've been using you all these years._

"Nah, I don't want to talk about Eric," she said unconvincingly after a minute. "I just wanted to hang out."

_Liar._

"I'm kind of busy right now."

_And you're a liar too._

_Aw shut up._

There was an awkward silence in which I tried to think of a reason why I could be busy and Michaela looked doubtfully at me. Suddenly, a large white van pulled into the driveway. **Redwood House Repairs** was printed in bold, red lettering across the side. Bumlets. My savior.

Toulouse walked casually between my legs and promptly fell asleep on the porch. Manet, quickly growing bored of Michaela's half-hearted scratching, followed suit. Michaela looked at them for a second, and I used her few seconds of distraction to hurry over to car.

"Heya Swifty, how's it rollin'?" said Bumlets good-naturedly as he hopped lightly out of his truck.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. (Whoa, déjà vu.)

"Fixing your roof, remember?"

"I didn't realize you'd be back so soon." I smiled at him and went to the back of the truck. "Want me to help you carry anything?"

"Hold it," said Bumlets, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Who's the lovely lady?"

I looked back up at the porch where Michaela was still standing, staring at the pair of us. "Oh, that's Michaela Bridges. Mika, come over here for a second!" I called.

She shoved her hands into her pockets and edged over to us. "Listen, Tom, this isn't—"

"What's wrong, Michaela?" I asked, confused. "Here, this is Bumlets Michener. He's fixing my roof, and a good thing, too. It was totally falling apart on me."

"Nice to meet you," said Bumlets charmingly, holding out his hand.

Michaela stared at him for a second, and then she looked back at me, hands still in her pockets. "I really have to go," she said shakily. "I'll see you later, Tom." She walked quickly over to her car, climbed in without opening the door, and pulled out of the driveway.

Bumlets and I looked at each other. "I'm sorry," I said quickly. I didn't see why she had behaved like that. Maybe Bumlets' and my blatant flirting had creeped her out. Who knows, maybe she was homophobic! She didn't know that I was homosexual, after all, so perhaps the way I was acting with Bumlets alarmed her.

"Don't be." He opened the back of the truck and started pulling out his tools, carefully avoiding my eyes.

"I don't know why she did that," I said. "She's usually loud and obnoxious. I don't understand why she would pass up an opportunity to meet a c—" I stopped.

Bumlets came out of his truck, arms full of God knows what, the corner of his mouth tugging up. "To meet a what?" he asked evilly.

_Don't blow it. _I opened my mouth, trying to think of a cover-up story. _Don't blow it._

The cover-up story didn't come fast enough. "A cute guy like you," I said lamely.

Bumlets smiled. "I _am_ gorgeous. Perhaps that intimidated her." He handed me the box of random tools. "Here, hold this."

I beamed and took the box from him. Either he was very stupid or very gay. _Or both, _I reasoned, as he pulled his ladder off the side of the truck and began to lug it over to the house. "So who's this Michaela character?" he asked curiously, beginning to climb up.

"She's infatuated with my brother, Eric, and she uses me as a source of information about him which she can later use to break up him and his wife," I said honestly.

Bumlets looked at me. "You serious?"

"Unfortunately." I watched him climb up the ladder, trying not to look too much at his ass. Baby. "She's like his secretary at work or something."

"Really now? What does he do?"

"Lawyer."

"I'm not surprised." He reached down to take the box of tools from me. "He sounds like a bit of a prick — no offense, or anything."

"Oh, none taken; I totally agree. He's a complete loser, too. Guess what his kids are named?"

He smiled. "I dunno. What?"

"Floyd, Pansy, and Adora."

"That's horrible!"

"I know! Can you imagine going around at the age of nine and having to say 'Hello, my name is Floyd Jenkins and I have two younger sisters named Pansy and Adora and no friends'?"

Bumlets laughed. "I say we adopt the poor kids, change their names, and move into some random apartment in NYC where there will be no more roofs to fix!"

"Bloody brilliant, mate!" I chuckled. "Except for the fact that his kids are spoiled brats and..." I took a deep, dramatic, shuddering breath and started to sob. "And I could never continue my career as an artist if I were living in a crowded city! I'm incredibly claustrophobic; I need room to BREATHE!"

"Man, you should have been an actor."

"Why, thank you."

"Well I can't imagine you have much success selling your art _here_," said Bumlets, hopping down from the roof and wiping his hands on his blue jeans. "I mean, we're in Boxborough, Massachusetts. What the hell is there to find in Boxborough? It's frickin' nonexistent!!"

"Aw shut up," I laughed.

"Here, listen, I was thinking about you the other day. There's a good-sized art industry about twenty minutes away in Maynard, and I got their number if you're interested." He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me.

I wanted to hug him. (Partly because I just wanted to touch that amazing body, and partly because I was really excited about the selling opportunity.) I didn't, however. I settled on thanking him elaborately and wringing his hand.

"They especially like impressionism or whatever it's called," Bumlets added.

"Awesome," I said pathetically. (Yes, I was so excited I was reduced to using words like "awesome" to express my opinion.)

Bumlets grinned at me, flicking his head to get his bangs out of his eyes. "Well I should probably get started on the roof. I'll tell you how it's going in about a half hour, all right?"

"No problem."

He winked at me, and I walked dreamily back over to the porch, tripping over my sleeping dogs because I was still staring back over my shoulder at him. "I'm going to marry him," I whispered to Toulouse as I picked myself up.

I'm sure that if that dog had been blessed with speech, he would have said something along the lines of "Suuuuuure you are, you melodramatic, love-sick nutcase."

But, luckily, Toulouse could not talk, and I was allowed to remain in my dreamy state for the rest of the afternoon. And the loud hammering on the roof proved to be very pleasant background music as I painted.

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**_Shoutouts!!!_**

**__**

**rumor:** Whoa. Art history major. I'd better make sure I get this stuff right, then, considering I'm just a fan and really know nothing about art. All I really know is that I like it, and I'm hoping that's enough to get me through this fic, lol. Anyway, thanks for reviewing, I love you!

**Erin Go Bragh:** HOORAY! Thanks for reviewing!!

**singin'-newsies-goil:** I LOVE MOULIN ROUGE. Ewan McGregor is my best friend, I want to marry him. No, I am GOING to marry him. lol, I know, I'm totally heartbroken about AOL 9.0!! (That was an incredibly conceited thing to say.) Thanks for reviewing, I love you!

**Checkmate:** Pickles. I eat sour pickles for breakfast. :-) All right, so I don't, but I _was _eating pickles when the idea for this story came to me, lol. Anyway, thanks for reviewing, Toulouse gives his love back! :-D

**Aelia O'Hession:** HAHAHA, Newsies combo meals!! ((dies)) That's great, just great. Just for that, you get a special virtual review cookie because I love you. Thanks for reviewing!! ((hops away laughing hysterically))

**Coin:** Moulin Rouge is an AWESOME movie. AHH. (I saw the real place in Paris last year, actually, and it was kind of boring, but the MOVIE is great. lol) I'm actually not that big a fan of Toulouse's paintings, but he sounded like a great guy so I named the dog after him. I'm just weird like that. Anyway, thanks for reviewing, I love ya!

**geometrygal:** Yes, Swifty is about as cute as it gets. ((hugs him)) ((backs away as you start frothing at the mouth and growling at me)) ((leaps into Bumlets' arms)) HOORAY! And now we're all happy! Thanks so much for reviewing, I love you!!

**Bobcat:slashgoil:** Swifty/Bumlets is my favorite pairing, apart from Spot/Race. It's just too cute. :-D Thanks for reviewing, I love you!

**ershey:** Call me sick, but Swifty talking to his dogs turned me on. I feel like such a perv. Lol, thanks for reviewing, I love you!

**Oxymoronic Alliteration:** Well, you sound like you really know what you're talking about with art. I'm really just a fan of straight impressionism; it's simple enough for me to wrap my head around it but it's not boring. But I'm really just a fan; I have no idea what I'm talking about, lol. Anyway, thanks for reviewing, I love you!

**SpotLover421:** "Oh my!" Hahahaha ... It's the funniest thing in the world. I was away at camp for a week without any access to a computer, and now that I'm writing back to all my reviews I keep seeing people and being like "Aww, I MISSED them!!" It's kind of pathetic. Anyway, thanks for reviewing, I missed you!! lol

**studentnumber24601:** ((dies)) Too funny.

**Sinhe:** I love you too! :-D Swifty/Bumlets is my favorite pairing ever, they're just too cute together. Thanks so much for reviewing!!

**Sapphy:** Yeah, Swifty/Bumlets is very very hot. AHH. Thanks so much for the review, I love you!

**Thumbsucker Snitch:** Hooray for Swiftlets! ((does a happy dance)) Oh and by the way, thanks so much for the reviews on "AOL 9.0"! They were GREATLY appreciated, and yes, Nathan West is extremely hot. :-D

**Dakki:** HAHAHA! Yes, you must E-mail me and we shall begin to plot our evil scheme of a story. Mwahahaha. :-) OMG! He has EYEBROWS!! MY SMILEY HAS EYEBROWS! WOO HOO!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH omg this is great. Thanks for reviewing, I love ya! ((flies away with her eyebrow-smiley))

**KyrielF:** HOORAY FOR SWUMLETS!! ((does a happy dance)) Here, Kyriel, come and move to Alaska with me, Swifty, and Bumlets. It'll be fun, I promise! :-D lol, thanks for reviewing, I love ya!

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**Author's Note:** There is a little bug flying around my head and it's driving me insane. I mean, I know I'm incredibly sexy, but the fact that I attract men, women, plants, and insects is getting a little irritating.

((whispers)) The bug's gone.

Ahh, scratch that, no it's not. AHHHH! It just tried to fly up my NOSE!! ((closes eyes)) I don't want to be sexy, I don't want to be sexy, I don't want to be sexy...

Leave a review and I'll love you forever!

-The very unsexy Saturday ;-)


	3. Chapter Three

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Author's Note: I can't believe I'm doing this. My other computer is dead, so now I'm retyping the entire chapter. I feel like shouting a string of swears, but I'll spare you, lol.

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Disclaimer: I don't own any newsies or song lyrics. Mika/Michaela, Eric, Catherine, Floyd, Pansy, Adora, Suzy, and the woman behind the counter at the Maynard Art Gallery belong to me, though. WOO HOO, I'M FRICKIN' RICH!!

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**__**

"Reality is a crutch for people who can't handle drugs."

-Lily Tomlin (irrelevant, yes, but I thought it was funny…)

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I stood back, camera swinging from my neck, and examined the painting I was about to photograph. I had done it the other day, but I was unsure of whether I should include it in my portfolio for the Maynard Art Gallery.

It was an oil painting of a dark-haired boy sitting at what had ended up looking kind of like my old, stained kitchen table. It was pretty close up -- the lowest you could really see was his upper chest -- and he was reaching into a jar of pickles. His hair was sopping wet, hanging in his eyes as though he had just gotten out of the swimming pool or something, and he was grinning.

Underneath the painting was the title -- _After The Walk In The Hurricane._

No, it wasn't Bumlets. How could you ever suggest that I would be so blatant as to _paint_ the man with whom I was infatuated? Honestly!

Toulouse brushed my leg. "What do you think?" I asked him, squinting my eyes and tilting my head to the side. "Do you think I should enter it?"

He looked dully up at me, raising an eyebrow. I glared back at him. "You want me to figure it out myself, don't you?"

He blinked and then meandered away down the hall. "I'm entering it!" I called after him. "As if you care," I added as an afterthought, and then I took my camera and snapped a picture of the painting.

My portfolio was finally coming together, and I must say I was rather excited. I had taken photographs of about twelve of my paintings and attached them to me résumé, and I was going to deliver everything to the gallery later that evening. They should be contacting me in a few days, maybe with interest in my work. Or maybe not.

"But first," I said, "I shall shower."

And I did.

"JUST AROUND THE RIVERBEEEEEND!" I sang happily as I shampooed my hair. "JUST AROUND THE RIVERBEEEEEEEEND! I LOOK ONCE MORE! JUST AROUND THE RIVERBEND, BEYOND THE SHOOOOOORE! WHERE THE GULLS FLY FREE, DON'T KNOW WHAT FOOOOOR! WHY DO ALL MY DREAMS EXTEND JUST AROUND THE RIVERBEEEEEEEEEEND?"

The shower was one of the only places where y dogs didn't join me in my activities, and it was a bit of a relief to be able to sing Pocahontas without Toulouse giving me the evil eye and Manet trying to knock me over. Either I had a terrible singing voice, or else they were racist against Native Americans -- in any case, they had a tendency to attack e when I sang that particular song. Go figure.

I climbed out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my waist, shaking my head like a dog to dry out my hair. Little rivulets of water slid down over the curves of my chest and stomach and disappeared under my towel. What to wear to an art gallery, that was the problem as I headed back into my room. It went without saying that I had never really done anything like this before -- I mean, I had done some unofficial selling when I had been in Paris with my brother, but other than that I'd spent the last few years pretty much unemployed.

I opened my closet and almost laughed at what I saw. It looked like something you would see in a TV show. I owned about a million copies of pretty much the same outfit -- loose blue jeans, plaid button down shirts, and a few sweatshirts. The only differences were that the plaid varied in color from shirt to shirt and the sweatshirts all had "The Boston Red Sox" printed in different colors across the chest.

Scrunching up my nose in thought, I picked out what I thought to be the least ratty shirt, the nicest pair of jeans, and a clean pair of underwear and pulled them on -- not in that order. I wished I owned a different pair of shoes besides my grungy black sneakers, but the only other pair of shoes in the house were my old ballet slippers from the class I used to take ten years ago. And Manet had chewed holes in them, so they were no good.

I glanced out the window. It had been a while since I had left the house -- weeks, really, since I'd been living off of old sour pickles. I couldn't be sure that my neighbors knew I existed anymore.

Not that anyone cared. I was sure they were all kind of scared of me. One time I went outside to photograph the sunset so that I could paint it later, and the Jacobs' ten-year-old kid, Les, went screaming back inside. I screamed too, thinking there was some sort of rotting corpse pushing its way out of the ground or something, but I soon realized that it had been _me_ that had terrified the poor guy. Old Thomas Jenkins coming out to be all weird and artistic on his front lawn. Oh horrors.

The entire thing had amused my two dogs greatly.

I put on my glasses and ran both my hands through my still dripping hair, willing it to lie flat for just one hour. It did for a second, and then it started to mess back up again in slow motion. "Aw, screw it all," I muttered and left my room in a huff.

"I'm going to Maynard, guys!" I called to my dogs. I got no answer. Stopping halfway up the stairs, I looked up to see Manet's rear end and Toulouse's side on the landing where they were watching Rolie Polie Olie. "I'm _leaving_!" I repeated, louder. Manet lifter her head and looked casually at me. "Yeah, I'll miss you too," I muttered sardonically, and I left the house, locking the door behind me.

It was five o'clock in the afternoon when I reached the Maynard Art Gallery, but the museum closed at nine, so I had plenty of time. I pulled into the garage, hurried up the steps, and was halfway through the door when I stopped and did a double take.

What I had first perceived to be a random homeless person sitting on the steps of the museum (if any homeless person would be stupid enough to hang out in MAYNARD and sit on the steps of a random MUSEUM nobody had heard of) now revealed itself to e none other than Bumlets Michener, playing his harmonica.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" I demanded, astonished.

He looked up, the late afternoon light darting over him through the trees. "TOok you long enough to get your ass up here," he said.

"Were you waiting for me?"

"Yes," he said, and he began to play "Home on the Range" on his harmonica.

I shook my head in disbelief, smiling despite myself. "I'll be right back, all right?"

The museum was overly air-conditioned, as museums often are, but I appreciated the coolness. I crossed the hall and got in line at the front desk behind a skinny boy with a cabbie hat and a ratty old plaid shirt to rival mine.

"Listen, fucker," the guy was saying to the alarmed woman behind the desk, "my friend put a lot of time into this work, and I personally find it extremely offending that you didn't take the goddamn time to even _look_ at his stuff. I mean--" He opened an envelope he was holding and spilled the contents out onto the desk. "--this shit is _good_. Or are you guys to goddamn closed-minded to realize that?"

"Mr. Connelly--"

"Conlon," he snapped.

"Mr. Conlon, I'm sorry if we offended you by not accepting your friend's work, but I can assure you that the manager did indeed look it over--"

The guy gave a derisive snort and gathered up the contents of the envelope. Craning my neck and trying to be discreet, I saw that it was the folded up remains of a portfolio -- and the shit really _was_ good. It looked more like surrealism than impressionism, but whoever it was must have been pretty talented.

The Conlon guy spun on his heel, narrowly avoiding crashing into me, and stormed out of the museum. "Westfordians," I murmured, noting the WESTFORD HIGH SCHOOL HOCKEY TEAM logo on the back of the jacket tied around his waist. "Where would we be without 'em?"

"What was that, sir?" asked the young woman behind the counter, obviously terrified that I was about to start cursing at her too.

"Nothing." I stepped up to the counter. "My name's Thomas Jenkins, I was hoping that, if you had any time, you could look over my portfolio." I handed her the envelope. "I've included my home address and phone number so you can contact me..."

She smiled and accepted the envelope. "Thank you, Mr. Jenkins, we'll be glad to look it over," she said graciously.

"Thanks." I smiled at her and left the building. Bumlets was still there, sitting on the steps and playing "Oh, What A Beautiful Morning". "You really do have an interesting musical repertoire," I told him.

"I know," he said and continued to play.

"Hey listen..." I sat down on the steps next to him and crammed my hands into my pockets. "I was wondering if you'd like to come over tonight -- I mean, if you're not busy. Not as a date or anything, just as -- well, like a nonromantic date. You don't have to if you don't want to, though. I know we don't know each other that well, but I just thought you seemed like a fun guy, and..." I trailed off lamely.

Bumlets slowly brought the harmonica away from his mouth and looked at me. "You talk when you're nervous, don't you?" he said.

I nodded, not trusting myself to open my mouth again.

"Sure, I'll come over, what time?"

I beamed. "You could come over now, if you want. I don't have much to make for dinner, but I could figure something out. Unless you want to take something out--"

He reached over and covered my mouth with his hand. "When we get home, I'm duct-taping your mouth closed. I don't care what we have for dinner; I'm not that hungry anyway." He stood up, grinning, and pulled me up with him. "Do do you want to get a movie, too?" he asked.

I'm sure my grin was literally covering my entire face, but I didn't much care at the moment. MOVIE WITH BUMLETS MOVIE WITH BUMLETS I was _hyperventilating_! I only hoped my dogs wouldn't deliberately embarrass me...

-----

"My favorite song's 'Mister Cellophane'. I've always had a thing for John C. Reilly," Bumlets confessed as we drove to my house with the movie "Chicago" dumped in the back seat. (I was hoping the fact that he had picked out the movie was a hint that he was gay.)

"Yeah, he's great," I agreed. "I like 'I Can't Do It Alone' better, though."

"To each his own," said Bumlets sagely. He reached up and pulled some red licorice from the Tupperware container nailed to the ceiling of my car. "But I don't care what you say; Catherine Zeta-Jones is not hot."

Ohh, he was definitely gay. Even _I_ know that Catherine Zeta-Jones was hot, and I'd been out of the closet for almost ten years now. I smiled and started humming happily as we pulled into the driveway. "All right, don't be alarmed if my obnoxious mutt Manet tries to tackle you; she's just sick of me and loves anyone else who comes through my door," I said affectionately as I unlocked the door and we entered the house.

"It's all right, I love dogs," said Bumlets, chewing contentedly on his licorice.

"I'm home!" I called as we pulled off our sneakers. "Manny? Toulouse? You guys up there?"

It was quite comical, the way both their heads poked out from the top of the stairs at the exact same time. "Oh, it's just you two," they seemed to think, and they went back to their Rolie Polie Olie marathon. Manet barely even glanced at Bumlets.

I looked back at him, bewildered. "I give up," I said, throwing my hands into the air. "I don't understand dogs any more than I understand women -- I should just stick to men."

Ahhh, foot in mouth, foot in mouth, I did NOT just say that... I looked slowly back at Bumlets, but he was smiling at me. "A wise decision, if you ask me," he said softly.

Ahhh, take foot out of mouth, take foot out of mouth, I am SO GLAD I said that!! I carefully hid the triumphant grin that was trying to spread across my face and lead him into the kitchen. "So do you want to eat?" I asked him, opening the fridge. "I mean, I can't make much, but we could probably figure something out."

Bumlets looked in over my shoulder. "I can make egg and ketchup sandwiches," he volunteered.

I raised an eyebrow at him. "Sounds delicious."

"No, it's actually surprisingly good," he laughed. "Here, if you don't like it, I'll…"

Let me paint you nude? "Here, don't bother, I'll try it anyway," I assured him. "It'll be worth it just to see you cook."

And it was. I don't believe I've ever seen anything sexier in my life. "This is the only thing I've ever been able to make," he said as he put the fried egg onto one of the pieces of toast. "I'm not particularly good in the kitchen... One time I melted the spatula into a little puddle of plastic because I left it on the stove and forgot to turn it off. Pass me the ketchup?"

I cracked up and did as he requested. "My younger sister has always been the cook of the family, though, so I never had to worry about it until I got out of college," he continued. He concentrated and drew a happy face with the ketchup on the flat surface of the egg. "Now I've just been relying on take-out."

"Yeah, same here," I said. I guessed I wasn't marrying this man after all -- we'd starve. "What did you major in in college?"

"Literature. I'm an aspiring writer. ...Et voilia!" said Bumlets, passing me the plate. I saw him cross his fingers and held back a smile as I took a bite. "Like it?"

"Yes," I said, astonished. "This is actually really good."

Bumlets beamed. Ahh, that _smile_! "So. Should we start the movie?"

"Aren't you gonna eat?"

"Nah, I'm not hungry."

"Anorexic." I poked him in the ribs.

"Weight-training, rather."

"Really?"

"Nah, just a fast metabolism."

"Aha!"

The pair of us made our way into the living room. Bumlets flung himself down onto the sagging, faded couch, and I went to the TV to get the DVD going. Pretty soon Catherine Zeta-Jones was singing "All That Jazz" and I sat down next to Bumlets on the couch. He was mouthing along with her. Ahh he knew the word she was so gay I was in love.

"So how did the thing at the Art Gallery go?" he asked me after a little while.

"Not bad," I replied. "I had to wait behind some kid from Westford yelling at the lady behind the counter for a couple of minutes, but that was rather entertaining so I didn't mind."

He chuckled. "What was his problem?

"He was pissed that they hadn't accepted his friend's work or something. I was surprised they hadn't; it wasn't bad."

"Yeah, they've got serious issues over in Maynard," he said, grinning. "They're going for a certain feeling at that museum, and if you don't have it, they toss your stuff out."

"Well that's good to know."

He winked at me. "So which pieces did you submit? Can I see them?"

"Sure," I sad, and then I remembered the painting I had done of him. "I mean -- no. No!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because."

"Oh, that's mature."

"I don't like showing people my work; it makes me feel awkward," I said quickly. This was a downright lie. I had always liked showing off my art because I knew it was good, and I wanted more praise. Who doesn't like a good compliment every now and then? But the painting of Bumlets was the last one I had photographed, and it was lying on my desk in plain view.

Bumlets shrugged and turned back to the screen. We didn't talk again until Queen Latifah was singing "If You're Good To Mama" and I said honestly, "You know, for the longest time I thought she was the queen of some obscure South American islan called Latifah."

Bumlets laughed sleepily and the phone rang in the other room. "Be right back," I muttered, getting up and trudging into the kitchen. I picked it up. "Hello?"

"Tom? It's your brother, Eric."

I made a face at the phone. "Oh hey, Eric. What's going on?"

He cleared his throat in a very businesslike way. I hated how he always talked to me like he was making a proposal to a client. "As you know, my family and I are taking a trip to Jamaica next week."

"You are?"

"Tom, I told you just the other day," he groaned.

"Oh, right," I said, not remembering it at all.

"Anyway, it would be extremely helpful if you would take care of Suzy while we're away," my brother continued.

"Suzy?" I repeated dully. "Who the hell is Suzy? You guys have another kid?"

"Our _dog_, Tom, she's our dog."

"Ohhh, right, right, sorry. Suzy. Wait -- _Suzy?? _You want me to take care of that thin? It looks like a cross between an opossum and a doormat with eyes!"

"She's a purebred poodle!"

"It's frickin' terrifying!! My dogs will tear it apart!"

"Come on, Tom, she's not that bad," said Eric persuasively. "Please? It'll only be for three or four days, and you'll only have to walk her twice a day, and I'll give you the bags of dogs food tomorrow morning. You never do anything for me, Tom. All I ask is that you take care of the family dog for a little while."

I took the phone in both hands and pantomimed breaking it in half. "Yeah, I'll take care of the little gremlin," I said dully.

"Thanks, Tom. See you tomorrow."

I hung up and glared at the phone for a couple of seconds. I hoped Manet would get overly friendly with that... thing... and bite its stupid little head off. Ohh, that would be lovely. I stared off into space, imagining it, and then remembered that there was a movie playing in the other room and hurried back in.

Bumlets was curled up against one of the pillows, holding his knees loosely against his chest, fast asleep. His shaggy hair had fallen into his eyes, and for once he didn't flick it back.

I stood there, staring at him. The light from the television was dancing across his angular features -- his perfectly straight nose, sensual lower lip, dark eyelashes -- and the curve of his side against the couch. And I realized looking at him that there was no one else I'd rather be spending the evening with.

Except maybe Catherine Zeta-Jones. He, even if I _was_ gay, she was still pretty damn hot.

-----

****

Author's Note: Phew!! I'm really sorry, no shoutouts today, I have to go. I'm off to Rochester for the next four days! HOORAY!! Thanks to Sinhe, singin'-newsies-goil, geometrygal, studentnumber24601, Madison Square, Coin, Dakki, Scout73, SpotLover421, and kattabean for reviewing, I love you all!!

-Saturday


	4. Chapter Four

Author's Note: Just to make sure everyone's clear on this — Swifty was just fantasizing about Manet biting Suzy's head off. No animals will be harmed at all during this story, because that's just sick... and I really like dogs. Yes, even poodles.

Disclaimer: The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists/musicians, but I own Eric and his family, Suzy, Manet, Toulouse, and anyone else you don't recognize. I got the gallery letter from a site I found on Google, because I'm not very good at writing professional-sounding stuff.

* * *

"There will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make the second better; we find comfort somewhere."

-Jane Austen

* * *

"We're not gonna make it to the ship, Bumlets," I sighed, leaning back and closing my eyes. "I've had this dream at least a hundred times, and not once have I reached the ship—there's no reason why we should reach it now."

"Aww, don't get all pessimistic on me now!" Bumlets laughed. He took up one of the oars in his hands, and after some reluctance I took the other.

"I dunno if I can do this again."

"Don't be such a lightweight," he chuckled.

"You don't understand. I've been doing this every night for the past three months, and I'm almost sore in the morning. It's like involuntarily taking up crew."

"Hello," said Bumlets idly, glancing down at the water. "We've got company."

"What?"

He smiled. "Sharks circling the boat this time. But don't worry—we'll make it to the ship."

Thunder rumbled overhead, drowning out my curses as I noticed the dorsal fins circling our rowboat. "This is so Homer Winslow!" I groaned. "Why did he have to be so fucking sadistic?"

"All artists are sick and twisted, in a way," said Bumlets distractedly.

"Excuse me?!"

He started. "Except you, of course."

I grinned and then put all my effort into focusing on rowing, trying to reach the ship on the horizon. The dorsal fins were really starting to freak me out—I actually thought I saw an eye at one point, which scared me almost to tears.

I was _not_ about to start crying in front of Bumlets.

We rowed through the icy, black water for what seemed like hours, unable to talk because of lack of breath. The ship up ahead didn't seem to be getting any closer... If anything, it was getting farther away the harder we rowed. I was beginning to lose strength.

"Bumlets, I..." I gasped, trying to unfreeze my hands from the oar.

"You all right, Swifty?" he asked concernedly.

I struggled for breath. I didn't want him to think I was a lightweight, but doing this all night every night was more exhausting than I wanted to admit. At times I felt like an insomniac, working night and day without a minute of actual, relaxing sleep. "I'm—" I began, but I choked on my words and started to collapse.

"Holy crap—Swifty?!"

I didn't get to see his face before the dream melted away into blackness.

* * *

Never in my life had I been mistaken as a morning person, and today was not the day I was planning on becoming one. I heard my doorbell ringing off in the distance, but it took me a full ten minutes before I managed to wrench myself from the subconscious world and realize that one would usually go and answer the door in a situation like this.

Damn.

"Swifty?" came a soft mumble from my right. "Swift, I think there's someone at the door..."

Well, as I'm sure you could imagine, my eyes flew open when I realized that I was not alone, as I had suspected. I was used to waking up with my arms wrapped tightly around Manet's body and her nose in my ear, so it came as a bit of a shock to me when I discovered that the body I was holding close to my chest was quite human.

"Bumlets?" I managed to choke out.

"Mornin', sunshine," he said without opening his eyes. The doorbell rang again, and he groaned. "Who the hell is that at seven in the morning?" he grumbled, smushing his face into the couch to try to block out the noise.

I sat up. "Holy crap, I think it's my brother," I said, eyes wide.

"Why's he here now?"

"He wants me to take care of his poodle or something..." I sighed and pulled myself upright, muttering a few choice words as I made my way sleepily to the door. The doorbell rang again. "Yeah, I hear ya..." I yawned, and I opened the door.

Eric raised an eyebrow at me, his hands in his pockets and that politely impatient expression he always seemed to have on his face when he talked to me. Throughout our childhood everyone had always said the family resemblance between the pair of us was astonishing, but over time he had developed a more mature, confident appearance, whereas I had stayed scrawny and quiet, with dark, nervous eyes. "Heya, Tom," said Eric with a fake smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Were you asleep or something?"

"When you said you'd see me tomorrow, I didn't realize you meant first thing in the morning," I said drowsily, fighting to keep my eyes open.

"Well, we _are _leaving early." He glanced at his watch, then looked back at his minivan parked in my driveway. "My family's in the car, so I have to run. I'll be back for Suzy around three the day after tomorrow, all right?"

And that was when I looked down.

I could have sworn the Jaws theme song filled the air as my eyes met the eyes of that... _thing_, and it smiled at me. Evilly. "I am from another galaxy," it seemed to be saying. "I can see into your mind, and I am going to go into your belly-button like that bug in the Matrix." Ohh, this was going to be an interesting weekend...

"Suzy," said Eric with irritation, and I realized that he had been holding out the thing's leash for me to take.

"Oh," I said. I took the leash with trembling hands and avoided looking at _it. _"All right... Have a good time, I guess. See you later."

And Eric left.

"Hey Swift, who was th—AHHH!" Bumlets yelled, staggering back a couple of steps. "What the hell is THAT?!"

"My brother's 'dog'," I said, and I reached down to pat the thing on the head. It snapped at my fingers.

Bumlets stayed several feet back, staring at it. "It looks like something you'd see on Star Trek... Are you sure it's domesticated?" he asked shakily.

"In theory, yes," I answered. "According to Eric, anyway. But he's a lawyer, so he's very good at lying."

"I believe you," said Bumlets.

The thing rolled onto its stomach and wiggled its legs in the air, obviously wanting us to rub its tummy. Bumlets looked at me. "Well _I_'m not touching it," he said with a grin.

I sighed and squatted down next to the thing. "I can't believe I'm doing this," I muttered, and I reached forward and tentatively touched its stomach. The thing sat up and bit me on the arm.

"AHHHHHHH!" Bumlets and I yelled, leaping back and throwing our arms around each other.

"That's it, this thing is obviously part-wolf," said Bumlets, breathing hard.

"It doesn't look like it's part-wolf."

"What the hell is it, then?"

"Poodle, I think.

"That's bullshit, Swifty. It's evil."

We both suddenly realized that we had our arms tightly around each other, and pulled back awkwardly. I shoved my hands in my pockets. "So... What do you think we should do with it?"

"Feed it to the sharks," said Bumlets solemnly.

"Can't. Animal abuse, remember? We'll get busted."

"...So?"

I grinned. "The fact that I don't have any sharks with me at the moment might be a problem," I said.

"Are you kidding me?!" Bumlets sat down and put his head in his hands. "You know, I have one simple request, and that is to have sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads! Now, evidently, my cycloptic colleague informs me that that can't be done. Can you remind me what I pay you people for? Honestly, throw me a frickin' bone here!"

I stared at him. "Your memory for movie quotes is unreal," I said.

"Thank you," he answered, curtsying.

The thing growled from the floor, and we both jumped. "All right, I think we should probably feed it before it decides to eat us instead," I said.

"We? Who said anything about we? It's your brother's dog, man, and I'm not going near it."

"Asshole." I picked up the leash and brought the thing into the kitchen, being careful not to look at it. Manet and Toulouse were sitting patiently by their food dishes, waiting for breakfast, but they leapt back when they saw what I had in tow. Manny stuck her tail between her legs and began to whimper, and Toulouse simply left the room.

"Um... Manny, this is Suzy," I said awkwardly. "She's staying for the weekend, so please be nice to her."

Manny left the room too.

I rubbed my hands together. "Well, that went better than I had expected."

"Dude, this dog is messed up," said Bumlets. "Look."

I looked down. The thing had wriggled under my ratty old carpet and was snoring loudly, it's small, curly tail wiggling in the air. "That," I said, "is exactly why I got two ugly mutts instead of a poodle."

"Amen," said Bumlets.

We got out the food anyway, and, stepping over the lump in the carpet, set it down next to Manet and Toulouse's dishes. "Breakfast!" I yelled. "C'mon, guys, don't leave me here with this thing!"

They ignored me, seemingly more willing to starve to death than to go near the thing snuggled under our rug.

"I think that's the mail," said Bumlets, yawning and carefully looking at anything but the Poodle from Hell. "I'll go get it—hold on."

I wanted to call "DON'T LEAVE ME!" after him, but I didn't—I didn't want him to think I was _completely _out of my mind. Sighing, I tossed the empty can of dog food into the trashcan in the corner, and began to search for my Cheerios. I eventually found them in the cabinet next to the sink with the broom and the sponges, and I decided not to think about how they'd gotten there. _I feel like I'm seventy-five instead of twenty-five, _I thought grimly, taking a handful of Cheerios and eating them dry. I was out of milk.

"AHA!" I heard Bumlets yell from outside. "THE MUSEUM WROTE BACK!"

He was probably waking up the neighbors, but I didn't really care. They all hated me anyway. I put down the box of Cheerios and hurried to the door, meeting him before he was up the steps. "Does it look good?" I asked.

"How should I know? I'm not gonna read someone else's mail, it's a federal offense!"

"Augh, you're so..." I chuckled and sat down on the steps, peeling open the envelope. Bumlets sat down beside me. "Will you read it aloud?" I asked suddenly. "I... I've been giving in art to galleries for five years, and I'm still not used to the tension that comes with the letters."

"Sure," he laughed, and he took the letter from me. He cleared his throat and read:

Dear Mr. Johnson,  
  
Thanks you for submitting slides for my consideration and for introducing us to your work. Unfortunately, at this time we are making very few additions to our roster of artists. In reviewing your slides, I've come to the conclusion that your work doesn't fit well enough with the direction in which the gallery is moving for us to consider it further.

My heart sank to somewhere around my knees. I avoided looking at Bumlets, who had paused for a second as though he couldn't believe what he was reading.

Be aware that the choices I make in this area are completely subjective and intertwined with my personal aesthetic as well as the needs of the gallery. Thanks for your interest and enthusiasm for our project.

Sincerely,

Bob Culley

Maynard Art Gallery Director

"Asshole," said Bumlets softly. I didn't say anything, and he took the rest of the contents from the envelope and looked at them. "Is this your portfolio?" he asked.

"They sent it back?"

He didn't answer. He was staring at one of the shots, his eyes wide. He looked up at me. "Is this me?" he asked.

"No," I said quickly without looking at the painting. I knew he was looking at _After The Walk In The Hurricane_, and I didn't want to see it.

"It sure looks like me," he said, a grin tugging up the corner of his mouth. "You sure?"

I looked down. "Yeah, I'm sure." I was embarrassed that he had seen my rejection letter, and I was embarrassed that he was looking at my painting of him now. I hated being embarrassed around him. "I'm sorry, Bumlets," I said, and I reached forward to take the picture from him.

He touched my arm, and I froze. "Why are you sorry, Swifty?" he asked softly.

I licked my lips, unable to meet the other boy's eyes. "For painting you," I said finally. "And not telling you. I didn't... I just..." I broke off awkwardly.

"You just what?" asked Bumlets. He moved his hand up to the side of my face and brushed his thumb against my cheekbone, his eyes still fixed on mine. I drew my breath in sharply. "Why did you paint _me_, of all people? I mean, I'm just... I'm just fixing your roof. There's nothing special about Shane Michener." He smiled slightly and ran his fingers down the curve of my face, then took his hand away.

I closed my eyes. I couldn't say it, couldn't tell him how I watched him at every possible moment, studied how he moved his fingers, his eyes, his lips. There was an unusual grace in him that no one seemed to notice. I hadn't captured it in the painting.

Bumlets leaned forward and gently kissed my collarbone. "Holy crap," I breathed, biting my lip.

"You're so quiet sometimes," he said softly, pulling back.

"I'm not that quiet."

"No." He smiled and caught my hand in his, touching the paint stains over my knuckles and on my fingertips. "You're not that quiet. But you seem almost scared of me sometimes."

I smiled. "I'm not."

"Then kiss me, dammit," said Bumlets.

"Sure thing," I said, and I kissed him. It wasn't my first real kiss, but I sure felt like it was from the moment my lips touched his. He reached up and rested his hand against mine, and I traced my fingers along the side of his face. I was in a complete state of shock, but it felt pretty fucking good.

I really hoped my dogs weren't watching.

Bumlets pulled back suddenly, smiling and slightly breathless. "I gotta go," he panted, brushing my hair out of my eyes with a trembling hand.

"Why?" I asked, surprised.

"I just... I gotta go. I'm gonna be late for work." He stood up and looked out over the driveway, before bending down and kissing me again. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay? On the roof?"

I nodded, practically grinning from ear to ear. He started to leave, but I took hold of his arm. "Hey Bumlets?" I said awkwardly.

He looked at me. "Yeah?"

"You were wrong. Shane Michener is very, very cool." I paused, grinning slightly. "Even if he does fix roofs."

He grinned. "Thanks, Swifty."

From inside the house came an obnoxious yippy noise that sounded like a squirrel having a heart attack. I froze, wondering what the hell could be making that sound, before I remembered that I was currently being subjected to the bizarre and terrifying tendencies of Eric's killer poodle. What it was doing in there, I didn't want to know.

"Oh, and good luck with that thing," said Bumlets as an afterthought.

"Thanks. I'll need it," I answered grimly.

* * *

****

SHOUTOUTS.

Singin'-newsies-goil: The bass drum section?? Surely NOT! ((hides under a table))

Braids21: Honestly, I love your reviews more than anything else in this world. It's really quite amusing when they get cut off, 'cause you're always in the middle of some spaz attack. It's like "HAHA! THAT WAS SO GREAT! I—" and then it ends. You, my dear, are wonderful.

Two-Bits: Thank you! Nice penname, by the way. "Heya Weas, spot me two bits, will ya?" :-D

Obsessed wit' Aaron Lohr: Ahh! I can't tell you how glad I am you're reading this; I've missed you so!! Thanks for reviewing!

HotShot: Yeah, they definitely say "wicked" in Boxborough. I love New England _so much_...

Scout73: Cockapoo... ((thinks very very hard)) I have absolutely no idea what a Cockapoo is. That's bizarre. :-D

Stage: Nice curtains. ((dies laughing)) That's SO GREAT. Anyway, I'm really glad you're reading this 'cause I love your stuff. And I love how you spell Bumlets "Bumblits". Brilliant.

Sihne: Ah, my Swumlets pal!! ((glomps)) Thanks so much for the review!

Eringi: I agree; Bumlets does not get nearly enough attention. I try to write him into a lot of my stories, so— ((nudge nudge)) —you can check 'em out if you want. Lol, thanks for reviewing!

Glitz Kelly: Thank you!! ((glomps))

Dakki: MY LOVE! ((checks to see if annoyed sister is watching)) ((tackles you)) Yeah, I'll try your egg-and-ketchup-and-bacon-and-bacon-grease-wonder-bread concoction... ((coughs)) ...at some point. Thanks so much for reviewing!!

Erin Go Bragh: Thank you!! ((tackle-glomp))

Aelia O'Hession: People actually staple licorice containers to the ceilings of their cars? ((pauses)) SHWEET! Thanks for reviewing, I love you!

Geometrygal: Egg-and-ketchup sandwiches are the world, man. I read some Harry Potter fanfic a while back when James made Lily eat one of those as a sort of punishment or something, and she ended up loving it. And mine turned out to be pretty frickin' good. :-D Thanks for reviewing!

Sapphy: The queen of hidden Wayne's World references?? Oh how you flatter me, Sapphy, dahling! ((curtsies)) Thanks for reviewing—and now UPDATE MARY SUE!! I must see how you get Racetrack in the end (because you _will _get Racetrack in the end, of course) or else I'll have a nervous breakdown and die. And I'll miss you while I'm in the afterlife.

* * *

Author's Note: I just watched "The Breakfast Club" for the first time this morning, and I practically died laughing when Bender lit his shoe on fire. Holy crap, that's a good movie...

-Saturday


	5. Chapter Five

Author's Note: ((smiles sheepishly)) I messed up my own character's name in the last chapter... I addressed the letter from the art gallery to "Mr. Johnson" when it should have been "Mr. Jenkins". Stupid mistake. I apologize, and I hope that didn't cause any confusion in the last chapter.

Blink: She's an idiot, isn't she? Can't even remember the name of her own character...

Thanks for your sympathy, Blink. ((smacks him))

Disclaimer: The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists, and I own Suzy, Mika, Manet, Toulouse, Bob Culley, Eric Jenkins, and his family.

* * *

And I, like a firework, explode

Roman candle, lightning lights up the sky

In cracked streets, trample underfoot

Side-step, sidewalk

I see you stare into space

Have I got closer now, behind the face?

-Promenade, U2

* * *

In the middle of the night I awoke with a start, sweating, one trembling hand reaching out into the darkness. A bar of moonlight gleamed across my forearm. My skin prickled weirdly, and I dropped my arm to my side, bemused. Why...?

I glanced down at the two lumps on my covers. My unexplained outburst hadn't woken Manet or Toulouse up, which was fortunate. It was just me. Alone.

Alone.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear my thoughts. I was alone, but I didn't feel alone. I had a sensation in my chest not unlike the feeling I had gotten when I was eight and had realized too late that the sandwich I was eating had been covered with ants. I was terrified, but there was nowhere I could run because the problem was _inside me._

Moving carefully, I slid out from underneath the sleeping forms of my two dogs and climbed out of bed. I had no idea what the hell I was doing, but for some reason it felt like the most logical thing to do.

Everything felt smooth and cold and dreamlike, but if I was dreaming, I didn't mind. I stopped next to one of Vermeer's works that I had tacked to the wall and looked into the mirror, the sheet of smooth, black water. I didn't know why I was looking.

The young man who looked back at me didn't look like me, but somehow I wasn't alarmed. It was the same angular face, the same wild, unmanageable hair, the same skinny, amber-colored chest and bony elbows, but the mouth looked somehow sadder. Or happier. Or maybe it was the eyes that had changed—dark and liquid-looking and scared. Or more confident.

Unlimited... My future is unlimited...

I stared at the image of my own face, sharp and glowing and vivid in the shadows, and I saw myself the way Bumlets saw me, the way the rest of the world saw me. Fiercely beautiful, and quiet, with art in every curve, every bone, every muscle in my body. And the terror left me in an instant, and I suddenly felt that I could do anything, that I had to try everything, now, before it all slipped through my fingers like everything else.

I saw Toulouse lift his head from behind me in the mirror, staring at me. He looked so handsome in the dark, despite the gray hairs and arthritis. It struck me that he was probably going to die soon. He tilted his head and blinked blearily at me, obviously wondering what I was doing.

"Stop looking at me like that, I'm inspired," I said softly, and I left the room.

I felt somehow liberated, although nothing more had happened to me since Bumlets and I had kissed on the steps in my garage that afternoon. Maybe it was my rejection from the studio. Maybe it was for the best that I hadn't gotten in. I didn't know.

I turned on the light in my studio, hesitated, and then turned it off again. The moonlight only intensified my feeling of freedom.

And I stood there in the middle of my studio for some time, my hands in the pockets of my sweatpants. Then I smiled, made my way over to the window, and flung it open. The cool air stung my chest and face, and my smile broadened. Release.

My mind was racing a mile a minute as I stared out into the woods, my stomach tightening slightly from the cold air blowing across me. I leaned forward, gripping the windowsill, and let out a yell that echoed in the darkness and faded away slowly. I grinned. Violent. Illogical. Beautiful.

And I painted. I painted until the sun started to come up in the east, until my fingers seemed to be frozen to the paintbrush, until my back ached from crouching over the canvas for so long. I heard my dogs moving around downstairs, but they didn't disturb me, and they kept Suzy away too; they knew what I was like when I was in a mood like this. They understood me.

At around six in the morning, when the sun was almost fully risen and the sky was a dull gray, I finally sat back and looked with satisfaction at my results. My fingers were stained with about a thousand different shades of every color imaginable, but I didn't make to clean them off. It was how they should be.

"Not bad," I murmured as I looked the painting over. "Not bad at all." I felt sure, somehow, that if I had submitted it to the gallery, they would have accepted me. Even if they hadn't liked it, they would have accepted my work anyway. Because this one was beautiful.

Manet seemed to have lost patience. She did her notorious head-butt against the studio door and started barking softly, obviously very hungry. I sighed softly and set the painting to the side so that it could dry. If I didn't hurry, she would literally break through the door. And that would suck.

"Aww shut up, ya lightweight," I muttered fondly, opening the door just as she was about to fling herself at it again. With a yelp, she went flying inside and hit the wall with a dull thud.

I blinked. "You all right?"

She looked happily up at me, tongue hanging out, and then hopped to her feet and scurried out of the studio, unhurt. Of course. I tell you, that dog had an skull of steel—and it was totally and completely empty.

I decided to go and feed the two of them before she put herself into any more dangerous situations.

* * *

Suzy and I were having a staring contest across the breakfast table, and so far, I was losing.

"I can't believe you," I said in exasperation, my eyes locked onto hers. "First you impose yourself quite violently upon my generally peaceful life, then you eat all of Manet's food so that all I have left is stuff that gives her diarrhea, and now you're actually trying to intimidate me into feeding you my Cap'n Crunch! I won't have it, I tell you!"

Suzy growled.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry I said anything!" I grumbled, and I set my bowl of cereal down before her and crossed the kitchen to put Manet and Toulouse's dirty dishes in the sink. "I'm that not hungry anyway."

There was a thump outside, and Manet yelped, tripped over Toulouse, and flung herself at the door. She had always gotten very excited over the newspaper, for some reason. One of the world's unsolved mysteries.

"All right, keep your pants on," I sighed, wiping my hands on the back of my sweatpants and making my way to the door. I opened it, let the dogs outside, and then went down to the end of my driveway to get the newspaper before they decided to eat it. Mutts are messed up that way.

"Anythin' good this mornin'?" I murmured, pulling the paper out of its plastic casing and unfolding it. "Hmm. Baby born with two heads. Must be from Westford."

"Good morning, Thomas Jenkins!" came a sing-song voice from across the street. I looked up to see Mika jogging up to me, wearing sweatpants and her soccer t-shirt. I had forgotten how insanely active she was. Anti-intellectual...

"Mornin', Mika," I said, looking back down at my paper.

Behind me, Manet and Toulouse yipped joyfully and then lunged at Michaela, almost knocking her over with their enthusiasm. She laughed and tried, unsuccessfully, to scratch both of the behind the ears at the same time while still carrying on a conversation with me. "So... How's Eric?" she asked in a would-be casual manner, trying to pry Manet off her.

"An asshole, as usual," I answered distractedly. "I'm taking care of his dog."

"Really?" she asked.

"Yeah. Scary-lookin' thing. I'm thinking of drowning it."

Mika stared at me, then decided to let that pass without comment. "Anything worth reading this morning?" she asked.

"Not really—" I began, but then I stopped.

The whole world stopped, actually. My eyes widened slightly, and I almost dropped the paper.

Mika looked at me, eyebrows raised in slight concern. "What's up?" she asked finally, and she kicked Toulouse off her leg and tried to stand next to me so that she could see what I was reading. "Aaugh, could you get your dogs off me? What are you looking at—_Tooooo-oooom!"_

I ignored her, my eyes fixed on one particular article on the bottom of the first page. "Holy shit," I breathed.

**__**

Gallery Director Bob Culley Murdered

By Hannah Pinsky

At approximately 11:30 PM on Friday, September 15, Robert Culley, director of the Maynard Art Gallery, was murdered in his sleep. Police investigations show evidence of numerous stabbings in the chest, stomach, and abdominal areas, thus causing Culley to bleed to death within minutes. The question of what weapon was used remains to be answered, but police suspect that Culley was stabbed with an ordinary kitchen knife of some sort. There is no evidence as of yet pertaining to why Culley was so brutally killed; examinations of records at the gallery are presently being carried out in further detail. According to a neighbor who wishes to remain anonymous, Mr. Culley spent the afternoon at the gallery and returned home at approximately...

I really did drop the newspaper then, my hands were shaking so much. What the fuck was going on?! I was, admittedly, rather pissed off at Culley for not accepting my work, but now that he was _dead_... I shuddered slightly and closed my eyes, my stomach tightening convulsively.

...numerous stabbings in the chest, stomach, and abdominal areas...

I lurched forward suddenly, dropped to my knees, and retched all over the driveway. "Holy crap—Tom, are you all right?" Mika cried. She hopped lightly over Toulouse and knelt beside me, wrapping an arm around my bare shoulders. "What's goin' on? Are you okay? Listen, I can go and get some help—do you want—"

Her words were cut off by another wave of vomit. I bent low, trying to tuck my knees to my chest, disgusted by myself. This was absolutely ridiculous... but at the same time, it wasn't. All I wanted to do was to black out, to escape for a minute, to delete that article from my memory forever.

And then I looked up.

"SHIT!" I choked out, and with my last bit of energy I flung myself out of the driveway, pulling Mika with me. I groaned and fell back against the grass, which was wet with dew and felt cold and slimy against my back. Gross.

"Tom, what the hell was—" Mika started, but she soon realized that I wasn't listening to her.

"Is there a reason you were kneeling in the middle of your driveway at seven o'clock on a cold, Saturday morning?" asked Bumlets, leaning out the window of his van and smiling at me. "You all right?"

"Well I..." I hesitated, not exactly eager to disclose the fact that I had just emptied the contents of my stomach into the pavement. "I'm fine."

Michaela stared at me. "Are you all right, Tom?" she asked softly.

I lifted an eyebrow. "We just established that I'm _fine_," I said, a little more sharply than I had originally meant to. "How come you always—What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice still unusually soft.

"You're looking at me like I've got four heads."

She sighed and shrugged slightly, before pulling herself to her feet. "I dunno," she muttered. "I guess I just—I mean, if you wanted me to go, you could have—" She sighed. "I'll see you later, Tom."

She left. And for once, Manet didn't chase after her and try to chew on her shoelaces.

"What. The. Fuck."

"Ditto," said Bumlets, staring after her, dark eyes wide. "Y'know, I've met this girl twice, and both times she's been absolutely bizarre."

"She's not always like that!" I moaned, putting my face in my hands. "I dunno—maybe you maker her horny or something. She's usually a really nice person, except for the fact that she's in love with my brother."

Bumlets climbed out of his car and began to go through the trunk to get out his tools. "Isn't he married, though?" he asked, and his voice was slightly muffled.

"He has three kids."

"Ah yes, I remember now. Floyd, right?"

I looked down at the newspaper in my hands, and then over at the puddle of you-know-what directly under Bumlets' van. If he didn't move it any time soon, he might not notice it. I just had to make sure Manet didn't try to eat it or anything.

"All right, I'm going inside," I said.

"You're _leaving_ me?" Bumlets gasped, pouting. "What if Michaela comes back and tries to slaughter me because I make her horny? What will I do _then?"_

I laughed. "I'm not feeling so great—I think I'm gonna get some Pepto Bismol. I'll be back out in a little while."

"Heartburn, nausea, indigestion! Upset stomach, diarrhea! HEY! PEPTO BISMOL!"

"...I'm not even going to ask."

"I'm going on the roof now."

I smiled at him, and he stared at me for a minute, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he reached forward and gently touched my bare chest, just above my heart. I caught his hand in mine. It was brown and firm and strong, rough from working on roofs for so long. The fingers were slightly longer than mine. "I'm sick, Bumlets," I said softly, looking up.

"I know," he answered with a grin.

"Do you want to throw up?"

"Did _you_ throw up?"

I paused. "Um, no. Of course not." I tried not to look at the puddle under his van. I had always been a terrible liar.

Bumlets smiled at me. "Well then. I don't see what the problem is," he said, and he leaned forward and softly pressed his lips against mine. I kissed him back after a moment of hesitation, running my fingers along the curve of his jawbone and through his hair. He was beautiful, and he was mine.

Toulouse nipped at the back of my leg, and I broke away, panting slightly, and stared at him. He never nipped anyone. "What?" I demanded, glaring at him.

He seemed to smile at me, before walking away to chase a butterfly with Manet. Cocky.

Bumlets' smile broadened slightly. For some reason, my dogs' obnoxious antics had always amused him. "Pepto Bismol?" he asked, touching my ear.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Cool."

I sighed and looked at him, and he tilted his head and smiled at me. "I can never tell what you're thinking," he said after a moment. "Where'd you get the poker face?"

The poker face.

The famous Thomas Jenkins poker face.

I suddenly found myself reliving all those childhood scenes most people forget when they get older, but I somehow never managed to forget because they were all I had. Eric and his friends locking me in the basement for the night while out parents were out for dinner. The girls in my art class making fun of me because I was the only boy who liked to paint. Eric letting my snake out of its tank on April Fools. Searching for the snake. My dad finding it dead in the middle of the road the next morning with tire tracks across its middle. My mother forgetting my birthday. My classmates forgetting my _name_.

Who's the quiet kid who sits in the back of the room?

Who?

You know who I'm talking about—the one who does nothing but paint?

Oh, him. He has a name?

Everyone has a name, stupid.

Let's just call 'im Swifty or somethin'. He's always runnin' away from his older brother like it's life or death.

Swifty. I like that.

Nine-year-old Thomas Jenkins in one word: invisible. Absolutely and completely invisible. I was the kind of kid who sat in the corner during class and pretended not to exist—and, after a while, people started to believe me. They forgot I was there. I didn't want them to know how much it hurt me when they looked through me like that, so I developed a sort of ever-present, impassive facial expression. It's been there ever since.

I was still invisible, in a way. I barely spoke to anyone but my dogs, and they didn't even speak back. It was just me—me and the dogs, me and the paint, me and the poetry at midnight and the open windows and the dog hair covering the floors.

Me and the bad grammar.

They were still there. The scars, I mean, from Eric and his friends. The thin, pale lines spider-webbing over the upper half of my right arm and across the top of my chest. I couldn't remember where half of them came from, but they still gave me a dull, nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I looked at them. They reminded me of things I'd rather not be reminded of.

Very gently, Bumlets kissed my cheek. "I'm sorry I said anything," he said with a small smile.

I started. "No—augh, it's okay, I'm just..."

Invisible.

"You did throw up, didn't you?" said Bumlets without taking his eyes off mine. "There's a huge puddle of puke under my van, isn't there?"

"Yeah," I choked out. I swallowed with difficulty and focused on his hand, which was still held tightly in mine. He was the only thing I fucking had right now.

"Your poker face is deteriorating," he said, his smile broadening.

I swallowed again. "I know."

"Not that that's a bad thing."

"Of course not."

"Not a bad thing at all."

"Naturally."

He looked at me. "Are you still sick? …'Cause I really want to kiss you again."

* * *

****

Shoutouts!

Sinhe: Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying this! ((gives you a daisy))

tuesday nellwyn: Aaaaaahh... I was hoping none of my reviewers would really know about the art industry, lol. I myself am a freshman in high school, and I admit I'm completely winging this. Thanks for your reviews! (And don't worry, I was happy when Swifty got turned down too. But I'm just mean to my characters that way.)

Braids21: Ahhh! Sprace to my door?! Oh how I love you! ((flying tackle-glomp)) Thanks for reviewing (multiple times, lol)! HOORAY FOR "THE BREAKFAST CLUB"!

Erin Go Bragh: Ohh how I love Sputchy... It's so awesome! Dutchy is my honey-pie! ((blinks)) I just said "honey-pie". Please help me.

Dakki: Dude, you've fucking _memorized _"The Breakfast Club". That's fantastic. I love you. (And Dalton channeling Bender, which I found vastly amusing.)

DALTON: I am going to be the lead saxophonist of The Subconscious Crew Team! ((goes into a mad saxophone solo, shaking his head around like Steven Tyler))

Thanks for reviewing!

Aelia O'Hession: I'm definitely not a fan of poodles. I like mutts, though. :-) Thanks for reviewing!!

Sapphy: (Dude, my computer finally stopped spell-checking your name. Sweet!) HAHA! Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction when I first saw The Matrix. I couldn't look at my belly-button for weeks... ((shudders)) Anyway, thanks for reviewing!

* * *

Author's Note: ((hops around)) I'm going to see Wiiiiiiiiiiiickeeeeed this weeeeeeeekeeeeeend!

Blink: Which explains the constant and rather irrelevant references in her fanfiction lately.

I'm excited.

Blink: Obsessed.

Infatuated.

Blink: Possessed.

I haven't been able to eat or sleep for days.

Blink: We're taking her to the exorcist tomorrow.

((A.D.D. moment)) Ooooh, guess what!

Blink: ((exasperatedly)) _What?_

I was reading Sports Illustrated last night, and I found the funniest quote about Johnny Damon. "In the seventh inning, using the blazing speed he jokingly claims he developed while trying to outrun mobs of ugly girls who chased him as a kid, the centerfielder stole second base after making his way to first on fielder's choice."

Blink and Saturday: ((picture little Johnny being chased by ugly girls)) ((pause)) ((burst out laughing))

Anyway. Thanks to all reviewers, I love you like hell—please leave another review, and join my be-an-ugly-girl-who-chases-Johnny clan! ;-)

-Saturday


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